Jenny, I know I thanked you privately but I also wanted to publicly thank you for being so bold and honest here. You didn’t have to, and I hope writing about it offers at least one form of letting go, whatever you do with the gifts.
Thank you so much, Rachel, for this, and for your compassionate editing and top-notch organizing too. Such a pleasure to have worked with you on this! ❤️
I did the same. People were suspicious as to why I was gifting something I could sell. The things were too dear to donate to strangers and yet too personally painful to profit from if sold. In letting go, of all the symbols of love sought after, fought for, that was not reciprocated- I became more free immediately.
I think the need to have a tight, nuclear, loving family is stamped into our narratives. But it only works out that way because many play their assigned role rather than listening to their true feelings. The longer I live, the more I realize that artists can think outside of these prescribed personas, but many people literally cannot. It is too scary for them. So they continue to be miserable and try to convince themselves ("He's been nothing but nice to me") to stay in the story. Good for you for recognizing your truth. It's hard to learn to let go...
What a powerful essay. Many of us, I'm guessing, can relate so well to the complex emotions these items bring, and why we hang on to them. Feeling sad for all of us! Thank you for describing it all so beautifully.
I appreciated and related to much of what you wrote. Grateful for your exploration and insight on the subject. I am always looking for that balance of who we are, the family we come from, and the tribe we gravitate towards. Thank you for sharing your journey.
I had to store my mother's paintings while working on first draft of my memoir. I had never thought of their psychic weight, but when I took them off the walls, I felt freer. Thank you for giving words to the kind of grief I don't wish on anyone.
Painful read. I'm so sorry, it all seems so petty, mean and selfish. I say toss it all. The company I worked for over 12 years pushed me out over political differences. I felt betrayed and in the next few months got rid of all and any gifts, swag, tshirts, mementos. All of it. I didn't need reminders taking up space. Instead, I made space for good things to come in...do it.
Beautifully written, Jenny. May you and your husband enjoy every moment those teenagers hang out in the new space. And when they leave (they will), you'll reclaim the space yet again. It's a good process, all this living, growing, changing we pursue. And we're better for it.
You're free, except for the chains that don't rust away. My father was a killer, who ended up a suicide, two facts that never sank in to my cousins - I have no siblings. One cousin, with whom I keep a conversation going, still says, "Yes, but he was always nice to me." I wrote this up recently. It's in the latest Dorothy Parker's Ashes. Flesh of his flesh. At least that cousin still keeps in touch with me. And I like that and like him!
Jenny, you have beautifully captured the pain of estrangement, the ambivalence that greets me almost daily in this experience. The unraveling of my sibling relationships is so similiar. Uncomfortable truths are often shown the door.
So good. Thank you. I have estranged siblings, too. As well as friendships that ended. I still have the spoils, tucked away where I can't see them. But I know they're there. I have a similar mix of relief and grief in the thought of giving them away. I still think it's the right thing to do. Be done with it. If anything turns a corner in the future, we can build something new.
Thank you for sharing, Jenny. This pain of estrangement you so eloquently put in writing is familiar. I've experienced that "thank you" after birthday wishes, followed by no recognition of my birthday; of being blocked with no apparent reason and without conversation. It hurts to be discarded so coldly, cut out of someone's life without understanding their motivations. The ambiguous grief can be overwhelming at times.
Thank you for writing this. I recently had a falling out with my brother (I am estranged from both parents...he was, but isn't now), and its so complicated, but I really am on my own now.
This part really hit home - "The narrative was that I, the eldest sister, the estranged daughter, was the problem, and every phrase I uttered, every action I took then had to fit within the constraints of this narrative box, no matter how incongruous the interpretation. In the end, no amount of earnest effort or outrage on my part could combat the fantasy that felt convenient for them. Truth and accountability didn’t matter. I was the problem, and that was that."
This is exactly what I ran up against. I realized that their story about me didn't matter anymore, I had to write my own. It's hard, painful, necessary work. It is a balm to read an honest account when I've been questioning myself to no end.
I’m so sorry you’ve also experienced this scapegoating dynamic. It’s crazy-making. Thank you for sharing this and for your kind words about my piece. You are not alone.
Jenny, I know I thanked you privately but I also wanted to publicly thank you for being so bold and honest here. You didn’t have to, and I hope writing about it offers at least one form of letting go, whatever you do with the gifts.
Thank you so much, Rachel, for this, and for your compassionate editing and top-notch organizing too. Such a pleasure to have worked with you on this! ❤️
So grateful to read your essay, Jenny. Grieving the living certainly is a mindfuck.
Thank you, dear friend. ❤️
I did the same. People were suspicious as to why I was gifting something I could sell. The things were too dear to donate to strangers and yet too personally painful to profit from if sold. In letting go, of all the symbols of love sought after, fought for, that was not reciprocated- I became more free immediately.
I think the need to have a tight, nuclear, loving family is stamped into our narratives. But it only works out that way because many play their assigned role rather than listening to their true feelings. The longer I live, the more I realize that artists can think outside of these prescribed personas, but many people literally cannot. It is too scary for them. So they continue to be miserable and try to convince themselves ("He's been nothing but nice to me") to stay in the story. Good for you for recognizing your truth. It's hard to learn to let go...
What a powerful essay. Many of us, I'm guessing, can relate so well to the complex emotions these items bring, and why we hang on to them. Feeling sad for all of us! Thank you for describing it all so beautifully.
Thank you. ❤️
I appreciated and related to much of what you wrote. Grateful for your exploration and insight on the subject. I am always looking for that balance of who we are, the family we come from, and the tribe we gravitate towards. Thank you for sharing your journey.
I had to store my mother's paintings while working on first draft of my memoir. I had never thought of their psychic weight, but when I took them off the walls, I felt freer. Thank you for giving words to the kind of grief I don't wish on anyone.
Painful read. I'm so sorry, it all seems so petty, mean and selfish. I say toss it all. The company I worked for over 12 years pushed me out over political differences. I felt betrayed and in the next few months got rid of all and any gifts, swag, tshirts, mementos. All of it. I didn't need reminders taking up space. Instead, I made space for good things to come in...do it.
What an interesting analogy to workplace relationships, which can feel like family (or at least very close friendships).
I completely understand that ambiguous grief.
Ambiguous grief, yes. Such a good way to put it.
Beautifully written, Jenny. May you and your husband enjoy every moment those teenagers hang out in the new space. And when they leave (they will), you'll reclaim the space yet again. It's a good process, all this living, growing, changing we pursue. And we're better for it.
Yes, such a good point. It all feels cyclical, doesn’t it? The difference is the relationships you retain (and want to) vs those you don’t.
You're free, except for the chains that don't rust away. My father was a killer, who ended up a suicide, two facts that never sank in to my cousins - I have no siblings. One cousin, with whom I keep a conversation going, still says, "Yes, but he was always nice to me." I wrote this up recently. It's in the latest Dorothy Parker's Ashes. Flesh of his flesh. At least that cousin still keeps in touch with me. And I like that and like him!
I'm so grateful to read about your story! Thank you for sharing. I laughed out loud at the "lousy mug" part.
Thank you, Lori! ❤️ I’m glad you laughed. 😊
Jenny, you have beautifully captured the pain of estrangement, the ambivalence that greets me almost daily in this experience. The unraveling of my sibling relationships is so similiar. Uncomfortable truths are often shown the door.
Thank you so much, Frances! ❤️🩹
So good. Thank you. I have estranged siblings, too. As well as friendships that ended. I still have the spoils, tucked away where I can't see them. But I know they're there. I have a similar mix of relief and grief in the thought of giving them away. I still think it's the right thing to do. Be done with it. If anything turns a corner in the future, we can build something new.
Thank you for sharing, Jenny. This pain of estrangement you so eloquently put in writing is familiar. I've experienced that "thank you" after birthday wishes, followed by no recognition of my birthday; of being blocked with no apparent reason and without conversation. It hurts to be discarded so coldly, cut out of someone's life without understanding their motivations. The ambiguous grief can be overwhelming at times.
Thank you for writing this. I recently had a falling out with my brother (I am estranged from both parents...he was, but isn't now), and its so complicated, but I really am on my own now.
This part really hit home - "The narrative was that I, the eldest sister, the estranged daughter, was the problem, and every phrase I uttered, every action I took then had to fit within the constraints of this narrative box, no matter how incongruous the interpretation. In the end, no amount of earnest effort or outrage on my part could combat the fantasy that felt convenient for them. Truth and accountability didn’t matter. I was the problem, and that was that."
This is exactly what I ran up against. I realized that their story about me didn't matter anymore, I had to write my own. It's hard, painful, necessary work. It is a balm to read an honest account when I've been questioning myself to no end.
I’m so sorry you’ve also experienced this scapegoating dynamic. It’s crazy-making. Thank you for sharing this and for your kind words about my piece. You are not alone.